Like a path in a garden littered with detritus of musical instruments. Flowers in bloom of multiple colours: Burnt Orange, Dusky Purple so intense it’s almost black – or black so deep it is almost purple, Electric Blues and Yellows but no green in sight.

It’s a garden where one gets lost.

In getting lost, the crescendo builds. Each step a punctuation of piano keys, each breath a note that signals symmetry, of creation of motion. As the fingers running across they keys slows. So does the garden Runner. Chest heaving, palms sweating, heart beating.

The dance has ended.There is no partner.

It is a dance by oneself. Alone. There is no sun. The garden is sheltered from all, sheltered from reality. It is a garden of the mind.